On the contrary, she was filled with an inexplicable confusion of happiness that was indefinable, regretting now, more deeply than ever, that she had not made a _confidante_ of Hubertine.

To-day her secret burdened her, and she made an earnest vow to herself that henceforth she would be as cold as an icicle towards Felicien, and would suffer everything rather than allow him to see her tenderness.

He should never know it.

To love him, merely to love him, without even acknowledging it, that was the punishment, the trial she must undergo to pardon her fault.

It would be to her in reality a delicious suffering.